I love the way your hair falls
In to your face
And you don't fix it because
You're so into what you're doing
And when we're together
I get so nervous
As you look up at me
With a smirk
And when our hands touch
It's like electricity going through me
So I pull back fast with butterflies
And how your eyes glisten
When the sun hits them
And the way they look into mine
Deep and with emotion
Gets me every time
And I can't help but to stare back
I love how funny and kind you are
But doesn't give a **** about
What people think
An how you stare at me
Across the room from the bar
Biting your lip
Makes my heart beat so fast
I feel you can hear it
All the way over there
I can add so many things
But this would be longer than
Phantom of the Opera
e.j.

So the only thing you lay claim to
is you are a poet.

He was referring to my CV
where it was mentioned boldly
the art I dabble in.

But that’s no skill
shrugged the questioner
doesn’t hone your ability
in finance management
or marketing strategy

can’t fetch one good deal
for the company
your poetry

but to be frank with you
I too wrote a few
only to dump before it got me
your poetry

otherwise I fear
I would not have been here.

Outside were faces in nervous wait.

I wondered if among them
was another poet!

The day is Monday, March 16th, 2015.
We are in the Idaho State Correctional Institution.
Today, the Idaho Commissioners of Pardons and Parole will decide if my ****** will be released on parole in September.

Many people come in, exchanging their I.D for their visitors' pass.
We all wait in a small L-shaped room, tense, waiting.
His family comes in, and the guard escorts them to another room.
Finally, a parole officer enters. She leads us through a metal detector.
We have to wait in the visiting room, while my ****** is brought into the hearing room.
His family goes in first, then us, along with my supporters.
The deputy calls us to order and explains what will happen.
He says his family may speak, if they have a statement.

She stands up.
"Your relation?"
"Mother."
"Go ahead."

He has managed to get his GED.
He has had his own struggles with other inmates.
He is a "good Christian boy."
He has served his time for his "non-violent crime."
I cry.

The deputy looks doubtful.
He tells the commissioners to begin.

Commissioner Bowstaff is first.
She asks him the nature of his crime, his five DORS, his lost job while inside.
She asks if he is aware of the recommendation they received.
He says yes.
She phrases her next thought carefully:
"Are you aware the interviewer described you as aloof, uncaring, and says you describe yourself as the victim?"
He seems befuddled.

Next is Commissioner Matthew.
He is a sharp looking man, and asks if he feels like his crime is "violent."
He responds.
"No."
"And yet you call yourself Christian?"
"I am Christian."
"God should be ashamed then."
His parents are shaking their heads.

Commissioner Moore.
"You minimize everything. You aren't taking responsibilities for your actions. If you can't follow the rules in here, how do we know you'll follow them out there?"
"I don't know."

Commissioner Bowstaff asks if, as the victim, I have anything to say.
I tell her yes, and she asks me to stand and state my name.
"Lauren Busdon."
"You have a minute to speak."

I tell them I am terrified to see him.
I will start my senior year in August.
His release will continue to effect my school career.
I have only just managed to speak the word "****" in the last two months.
There are other girls, so many others, who are afraid to say anything.
But they say it to me.

They dismiss us to make their decision.
I sob as we walk out of the room.

Everyone is proud of me, saying no matter what, I did my best. I was there, that's what matters now.
But what if it wasn't enough?

The deputy comes in to shake my hand.
"The commissioners have come to an agreement. Parole will be denied for 18 months, and we will meet again in September of 2016."
I laugh and my dad slams his fist on the table. My mom dissolves into tears.
"You are welcome to hear the announcement."
I say, "hell yeah I want to hear it!"

He hangs his head when they tell him.
His mother makes a strangled noise of upset.

We leave.
People are hugging me.
I am crying.
I don't know if I should be proud, or if I should just revel in the sheer joy of not having to see him for 18 months.
18 more months of freedom.
18 more months of trying to live.

~

Standing before the microphone
Blank faces stare from cushioned chairs
Jewels sparkle, acting like they’re real
While bow ties just seem sad…it happens

Marching to the beat of clicking heels
Unbuttoned vests as strange eclipsed spotlights
Illumine smoke swirls in overhead rafters
Flowing from my ember’d fingertips

And my hair is a mess…but it always is
And I don’t care…do you?
I’d clear my throat but that does no good
Gravel has taken up residence…it pays the rent

The room goes dim, the audience worries
Glares spark like steel on asphalt
I can see them clear, slowly fading in anxious doubt
Scratching on some ink pad and dusty sheets…ideas

Yet I love you, I love everything that is you
Need surpasses desire, and I need
My arms long to cling you, crushed against me
Breathing as one, harmonious breath…thoughts…they come

The bass player plucks and that is my cue
Flicking my ashes I begin to read…poetry
And the audience smiles…I am a poet and poetry is cool
Leonard Cohen was right